Life of Pie (And a Moose)
by Granger-Danger-62442
Summary: The Winchesters' lives are rarely simple and never easy, but they'll be damned if they go out without a fight.
1. Beginning

**Day One: Beginning**

* * *

John Winchester frowns, tightening his grip on the remote and hunching forward slightly.

"Dad!" Dean's voice floats towards him from some corner or another of the shabby motel they'd holed up in.

_("_Just for the night", he'd reassured his eldest. "Just until we find someplace more permanent." Variations of the same words he'd repeated almost twice a week for the past six months.)

"Yeah?" John calls absently, eyes never leaving the screen.

"Dad, look!"

"Not now, Dean. Gimme a sec."

"But Dad-"

"_Dean."_

His son fall silent, and John leans forward, concentrating on the words coming from the reporter: "-six months old baby, now an orphan. Police are still searching for any other survivors. The fire left little to-"

John leans back, a surge of vindictive pleasure coursing through him.

_The sick bastard. We got him._

There's a shriek, and John finally looks over, watching as Sam totters two final steps towards Dean before collapsing in a fit of giggles.

Dean sticks out a hand, "Alright, Sammy! You're a natural!"

Sam practically _glows_ as he slaps Dean's hand, sticking his free fist into his mouth and emitting an inarticulate shriek of happiness.

Maybe too much happiness, John can't help but think, and he watches as his youngest, overcome with enthusiasm, loses his balance and pitches flat onto his face.

Not unexpectedly, Sammy bursts into tears.

Concerned, John moves to grab him, but before he can rise off the bed Dean is there, quickly scooping up his brother and clutching him in a death grip.

John watches the scene, a trickle of amusement clawing it's way forward.

_'Atta boy._

He's not sure which of his sons he is referring to, and pretends not to see the all-consuming panic on Dean's face before the latter has managed to wipe it away.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, it occurs to John that Sam's first steps were towards his brother. Not that he had many options to choose from, but even this is a damn good portrayal of the developing Winchester dynamic if he ever saw one.

Eventually, he will decide that there's nothing wrong with a little responsibility on Dean's part. Sam needs a good figure to look up to, and it's better this way. Really.

Sammy's cries soften into hiccups as he sniffles into his brother's shirt, and Dean rubs small circles onto his back, whispering soothingly. John can just barely catch bits of words- "it's alright, Sammy"- "you're fine, I got you"- "don' worry about it"- "s'fine, it'll all be okay"-

John, strangely enough, feels as though he's intruding on a moment that he was never intended to witness. As he watches his boys- Sam's ironclad grip on Dean's shirt, and the fierce love etched into every line of the elder's face- John can't but feel that he's stumbled upon a crossroads that he'd had no idea had existed. It's almost as if some monumental decision had just been reached, and he hadn't been consulted.

He grimaces, shoving that idea to the back of his mind. He'll think about it later.

Always later.

For now, he turns away: turns his back on his kids and his face towards the horror in front of him as he focuses once more on the reporter. Hastily, he scribbles down the name of the town flashing across the screen, underlining it with a slash of violent finality.

In the distance, Sammy's tears have once again transformed into laughter; but the sound is like white noise in John's ears, and he stares at the screen, whispering an oath under his breath that he's repeated on this very day every year:

"It'll all be over soon, Mary, I promise."

* * *

**Ok so, part of the 30 Days of Writing Challenge over on Tumblr. 1 a day, for 30 days. Probs won't happen, but I WILL do all 30 eventually.**


	2. Accusation

**Day Two: Accusation**

* * *

Sam has only taken three steps into the motel room before he narrowly manages to avoid an untimely, and rather undignified, death. To be more precise- death by beer bottle, as the offending object slides out from under the hunter's foot. He clutches at the door handle, swearing.

"Dean?"

There's no response, and Sam, ever wary of the many versions of his drunken brother, is hesitant to approach. Rounding the corner, he stops dead, frowning.

"Cas?"

"Hello, Sam." The angel is perched on one of the two beds, legs folded neatly under him in a way that will never fail to make Sam laugh. He looks like a damn bird, head cocked to the side, gaze focused intently on- oh, there he is.

Dean's passed out, fully clothed, on the second bed, limbs sprawled to take up the entire mattress. Sam debates snapping a picture for future blackm- reference and, after only a moment's hesitation, proceeds to do just that.

Precious.

Shaking his head, he turns towards the angel. "Cas, man. What happened to him?"

Castiel frowns, tearing his eyes away from the form on the bed to focus on the man in front of him. "When I arrived here, Dean appeared to be… disgruntled. I'm… not sure of the cause, but apparently it was enough to warrant the consumption of several alcoholic beverages."

Sam raises an eyebrow. "Define several."

"I am not sure of how many he consumed prior to my arrival," Cas frowns, brow furrowed in concentration. "But for the duration of my presence here, I believe the number totaled around five."

Sam groans. "Jeez Cas, really?" he grouses. "You let him drink five of those?" He places the result of his most recent beer run down on the table, frowning at it distastefully. "He's gonna be a pain in the morning, you know that? And I'm the one who has to deal with him."

Cas bristles slightly. "I learned a long while ago that attempting to tell Dean what is good for him is very much an impossible endeavor." He glances back towards the man on the bed. "I assure you that I would have stopped him if the number had grown to an unhealthy amount, and they appeared to appease him. He fell asleep shortly before your arrival, but I am under the impression that the both of you have been busy as of late, and I was… hesitant, to wake him."

Sam snorts, makes a half-hearted attempt at annoyance but can't quite manage it. "That's putting it lightly." He dumps the products of his most recent beer run on the table before dropping into one of the empty chairs. "We've had, what, three vamp nests in the past week? It wasn't pretty."

Stretching, Sam winces as something in his back pops. Yeah. Busy. Glancing at the clock, he sighs, "Alright well, I'm gonna grab a shower and call it a night. You're welcome to stay if you want. Do whatever it is…" he gestures lamely around the room, "…you do."

"Thank you, Sam," the Castiel replies seriously. "I believe I will watch over you both." His eyes never leave Dean.

Huffing slightly because hey, that's never _not_ creepy, Sam rises from the chair, moving to grab his bag from where it rests near the angel. Cas slides off the bed to accommodate him, edging imperceptibly closer towards Sam's sleeping brother.

Sam just sighs, shaking his head as he pads towards the bathroom. _Three…two…one…_

There's a noise from behind him, and if Sam didn't know better, he'd swear that he's just become the first human to witness an angel of the Lord yelp in surprise.

"Oh, I forget to warn you," he calls back over his shoulder. "My brother when he's drunk? Major cuddler. Like, unbelievably so. Whether you're a willing participant or not." Sam grins, figuring that the silence he's met with is representative of Cas attempting to separate himself from the hunter without smiting him: Dean has a friggin' death grip when he wants to.

_It's his own fault for enabling his drinking habits, _Sam decides happily, as he hurries through his shower. _Let the angel take the brunt of the octopus limbs for once: I've done my time._

Still grinning at that mental image, Sam opens the door, and stops dead. Again.

Shit.

Ok, no, this is- just- no.

Grumbling, Sam slinks over to his bed, sliding under the covers and placing his back pointedly to the pair across the room.

Because seeing his brother completely wrapped around one of his best friends is not an image he can bleach out of his brain.

Dean, for once, is completely dead to the world: one leg thrown over Cas and an arm wrapped tightly his waist, anchoring the angel to him. Castiel has got one hand tangled in Dean's shirt; the other nestled in a fist under his chin, which in turn is tucked below Dean's like a fucking puzzle piece or some shit.

It's absolutely _sickening_.

And, to make matters worse, although his eyes are closed and his breathing steady, Sam knows that Cas isn't asleep. Which means that he's lying there, fully conscious, willingly letting Dean use him as a human stuffed animal.

Sam sighs, shoving his pillow over his head.

He's way too old for this.


	3. Restless

Day Three: Restless

* * *

**Wanderlust: An irresistible desire to travel in order to understand one's very existence.**

Traveling the far corners of mankind's earth used to be one of Castiel favorite pastimes, and he would often spend countless hours flitting from one place to the next on a whim, marveling in the beauty of his Father's creation. He had spent thousands upon thousands of years with humanity: watching, observing, but never interfering.

He'd been there in the early beginnings, watched as Cain, bitter over his perceived slight, had struck his brother down and been branded a wanderer forever. (Looking back on it now, Castiel thinks that maybe the punishment was not so harsh, after all. Brothers ought to support each other, tear each other down.)

He'd been to some of the most beautiful gardens on the planet, several surpassed only by Eden in their magnificence and splendor.

He'd traveled to the dry deserts of Egypt, watched in awe as the mighty pyramids (really, much more respectable than a tower made out of dung) rose up to pierce the sky.

He had, in his spare time, delved into the deepest fathoms of the oceans, marveling in the splendor of creatures that most would never even lay eyes on.

It was obvious to any one of his brothers that humanity had always held a special place in Castiel's heart. His many years observing mankind had left him with a strange agitation, an itch that had manifested itself in the very essence of his Grace that he never quite managed to suppress. Despite this, Castiel did his duty: protected his Father's creations to the best of his ability, and returning home when the job was done. His place was in Heaven, his home was among the Host, and Castiel was content.

One day, he and his garrison would receive orders, and Castiel would travel to Hell itself, storming its depths and monstrosities in the search of a single, inimitable soul.

Castiel would not feel contentment again for a long while.

Eventually, he would be charged with the task of rebuilding that lone soul, of reshaping it to its former tarnished perfection. Succeeding in this, he would then be tasked with protecting its physical form and guiding the human along the proper path that had been laid out for him by their Father.

He remembers his initial encounter with the man, Dean, and how it had gone about as efficiently as could be expected.

He remembers the knife, a pitiful attempt at defense if there ever was one, but Castiel feels that the man deserves merit for fighting back where so many would flee. Indeed, the angel quickly found himself on the receiving end of a gaze that was neither reverent, nor frightened. Wary, perhaps; cautious; but one that is very much indicative of a man willing to fight tooth and nail to make himself heard.

Time passes strangely for Castiel, after that, moving sluggishly at some moments, and shockingly quick in others.

It is not all good, his time with the Winchester men. He experience things that he never knew existed, emotions that, before his time on Earth, would have been unfathomable.

Pain, for instance, while familiar, is startlingly sharp when the claws of yet another monster tear through his vessel.

Anger is new, and one that Castiel often struggles to control. It is something that the he had never been familiar with, aside from the occasional annoyance or mild irritation.

Dean will tell Cas that he's only angry because he cares, but he's still skeptical on the logic behind that. It's not until Crowley makes his oaths, and Castiel, his vision tinged red, is threatening to tear everything down, that the angel _finally_ understands.

Guilt is one final emotion that Castiel, whereas he'd previously followed faithfully the words of his Father, is distressed to learn.

(Dean has no solution for this emotion, yet.)

At some point, the itch from before returns; Castiel can feel it emanating through his Grace, burning through the blood in the veins of his vessel.

The frigid air and whistling winds of his flights through the clouds are replaced with the comfortable leather and blaring music of a 1967 Chevrolet Impala.

He trades his wings, albeit reluctantly, for a black suit and tan trench coat that, despite constant cajoling, the angel will adamantly refuse to discard.

His longing for his brothers among the Host changes into an aching for the moment he can return to his two upon Earth.

Eventually, Castiel will be forced to make a choice between his brothers in Heaven, and the ones he has made for himself on Earth.

His heart is heavy with all of the things he has learned, the good, the bad, and, as Dean would say, the "freakin' nasty."

Castiel decides.

* * *

"Whatever, man. You totally cheated." Dean grouses, sliding behind the wheel of the Impala and twisting the keys.

Sam smirks from the passengers seat. "Yeah, whatever. You're just pissy 'cause you lost."

Dean grumbles under his breath, pulling out of parking lot and easing onto the road. "Whatever, man. Let's just get home, yeah?" He cranes his head back. "That good with you?"

Castiel blinks at him. "That is fine, Dean. I am unneeded elsewhere at the moment."

"Well, good." Dean grins back at him in the rearview mirror. "Because I saw a diner a while back, and you," he thumps Sam on the back of the head, "promised me some pie."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

Castiel smiles slightly from the back seat, closing his eyes and letting the movement of the road and the bickering of siblings lull him into contentment. The itch is gone.


	4. Snowflake

**Sorry for the delay, but I'm sure you all know how school is. I'm sorry for any spelling or grammatical errors, I'm sorry for the cavities, I just- I'M SORRY OK. *throws hands up in despair***

**Day 4: Snowflake**

* * *

They've only been outside for five minutes, standing on the edge of a clearing in the middle of the woods behind Bobby's place, and this is already starting to sound like a bad idea.

If someone else had walked into that same empty clearing at that precise moment, he would've been treated to quite a sight: Three grown men huddled in a circle, one the size of a small moose, the second in a dirty trenchcoat and ugly hat whose entire purpose in life seems to be to frown as hard as he can for as long as he can, and a third running his hand over his face in utter frustration.

"I don't understand. What is the point of this?"

"It's a- you just- Well, I guess Heaven wouldn't really have these, would they? Although I'm surprised Gabriel never tried to get in on it. It seems like his kind of-"

"Sammy, _shut up_."

Sam shoots his brother Bitchface #11, throwing his hands up in defeat. "Fine. You educate the angel. I, for one am getting a head start." With that, Sam hurries quickly into the trees, boots crunching comically in the snow.

"Right. Ok." Dean turns back to Cas, whose annoyed expression is still firmly in place. "Snowball fights. Easy enough to understand, if not to execute. Just do what I do."

Dean stoops down, gathering a respectable amount of snow into his palm. Packing it together, he shapes it until he's got a crude snowball. He passes it to Cas, who takes it dubiously in his gloved hands. Watching the former angel examine the hunk of snow as if it possesses the answes to life itself, Dean can't help but smile slightly. Cas may have taken humanity's side over Heaven's, but he's still first and foremost an angel. To say he adapted immediately to all things human would be a downright lie.

Castiel has, however, acquired a penchent for anything soft, if those gloves, scarf, and knitted hat are anything to go by. The pair of gloves and hat he must've found somewhere amongst Bobby's piles of crap, because the former is full of holes and the latter keeps getting shoved impatiently upward as it slides down over its wearer's ears. The scarf, judging by the obscene shade of blue, must have been stolen from Dean when he wasn't looking.

_Sneaky bastard, _the hunter can't help but think, not unkindly. He doesn't really mind; the scarf brings out Cas's eyes.

"It's just a snowball, Cas." He cuts in, after the angel's contemplation continues several seconds longer than necessary. He's rewarded with an expression of patient exasperation.

"Yes, Dean, I can see that. But what is its point?"

"You take it, and you throw it at people. Just be sure to avoid the ice chunks."

Castiel frowns. "What is the purpose of it?"

Dean huffs. "It's a game, man. It's fun."

When the angel continues to look skeptical, Dean rolls his eyes. "C'mon. You'll be a natural." He claps Cas on the shoulder, causing the latter's hat to slide down a couple of inches over his eyes and _damnit_ Dean needs to walk away right now.

The angel nods, seemingly oblivious to the hunter's internal struggle. "Alright, Dean."

"Hey!" They both jump as Sam's voice rings out from somewhere in the general vicinity. "You two old ladies gonna stand there all day? Or do I win by forfeit?"

Castiel frowns. "I don't believe either of us are-"

"Figure of speech Cas," Dean cuts in, eyes scanning the edge of the clearing. "More imporantly, did you see where-"

His interruption comes in the form of a particularly large chunk of snow making contact with the back of his head.

Dean swears, spinning around, and Sam's cackle reaches them from a distance. "You snooze you lose, guys!"

"Alright then." The older brother turns back to Cas, the beginnings of a grin creeping onto his face. "What do you say to a little tag team?"

x-x-x-x

Thirty minutes later, everyone but Cas is soaked to the bone. Which, Dean thinks somewhat petulantly, isn't saying much, seeing as he's the only one of them who has the ability to instantly dry anything damp.

Castiel, both brothers discovered, did not suck at snowball fights. He was the quietest out of the three, which meant that he could sneak up silently, dump snow wherever it would be most unpleasant, and retreat just as swiftly, eyes alight with, dare Dean say it, michief.

The angel was also the one with the worst accuracy, a fact that, when Sam realized it, quickly came to bite the Winchester/Angel-of-the-Lord tag-team in the ass, as Sam pelted them from afar. Dean would think that Cas's angel mojo would give him some sort've Superman aiming ability, but when he mentions as much, he gets that same exhasperated expression.

He warns Cas that maybe his face'll get stuck that way.

Cas doesn't find it funny.

When he's not looking, Dean dumps snow down the angel's neck.

Cas twists, clawing at his neck in an attempt to brush off the offenidng white menace. He is mostly unsuccessful. However, rather then mojo himself dry, Castiel's eyes narrow, and he turns towards Dean, an unreadable expression on his face.

Dean gets the hell out of Dodge.

He should've known better than to try and outrun an angel, and he ends up with his own collar-full of snow for his efforts. But when Cas tries to bid a hasty retreat himself, Dean grabs the other man by the scarf.

"Not so fast, mister."

Dean may have slightly overestimated their momentum, however, because when he gives the fabric a tug Cas goes careening into him, and they both end up a sprawled mess on the ground.

Dean, now thoroughly soaked to the point where the fun is just beginning to seep out of it, turns his head to the side.

From a couple inches away, Cas meets his gaze. Or rather, he tries too: seems he's finally lost his battle with the hat, and its fallen all the way down, obscuring all of his face but his nose and mouth.

"It's your own fault, traitor." Dean comments amicably, before the angel can open his mouth.

Castiel frowns slightly, and now Dean is looking at his lips and God _damnit_.

"I seem to recall you being the first one to break our truce, Dean."

The angel's words are stern, but the hunter can hear the amusement evident in each deep syllable.

"Shut up." He grins, because really, there's no arguing with that. Dean hesitates, then finally reaches across the empty space between them, tugging on the offending object before finally pulling it off to reveal bright blue eyes and a mess of hat-hair that Dean acquires a sudden urge to fix.

So he does, attempting in vain to restore any semblance of order to the wayward strands. (It doesn't occur to Dean until later that the angel may have been making it impossible on purpose.)

And if he continues the action longer than strictly necessary, fingers carding through the angel's hair, Cas doesn't seem to mind, his eyes falling shut in pleasure.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, Cas?"

"I think I like snowball fights."

Dean laughs, gasping until his sides hurt, and the corners of Cas's mouth lift in a rare smile.

x-x-x-x

Ten minutes later, that's how Sam finds them.

* * *

**Thoughts? Anything would be nice.**


	5. Haze

**All of this was written in a hospital waiting room, with no beta and no word processor. Judge me not.**

* * *

**Haze: To initiate, as into a college fraternity, by exacting humiliating performances from, or playing rough practical jokes upon.**

Six steady knocks on the door at three in the morning is the only warning they get that something is wrong.

Groaning, Sam rolls out of bed, chucking a pillow across the room at the mountain of blankets and bare skin he assumes to be his brother. Said pile ignores him.

Shoving his legs into pants, Sam shuffles blearily to the door. The three of them had worked out a series of what Dean calls passwords, but are really just patterns of knocks. That way they had a way of knowing if it was one of the brothers, the angel, or something more threatening. Still, Sam holds his gun loose at his side, just in case.

Tugging the door open, he blinks. "Jesus, Cas."

The angel is sopping wet, covered in mud and sporting a long scrape across his jaw.

"Cas?" Dean pads up sleepily behind Sam, senses sharpening as he takes in the sight before him. "The hell, man? Forget your umbrella?"

Sam shoves past his brother, ushering the angel inside. He divests him of his sopping wet trenchcoat, and Dean shuffles off to badger the maid for extra towels. Sam notes belatedly that his brother has forgone a shirt, and hopes maybe that'll expedite the process. Turning back to his friend, Sam directs Cas to the edge of one of the beds. Cas sinks onto it without protest, staring quietly down at his hands. After a while, he begins to pluck absently at the frayed edge of his sleeve, never saying a word.

His fidgeting unnerves Sam more than the lack of speech, having always associated Castie with stillness and purpose. The angel is always so deliberate, never one to make a move without thinking it through first.

Even this, this slow descent into humanity, isn't anything new. These final moments before Castiel falls completely haven't been as dramatic as the brothers expected. There've been no lightning strikes, no earthquakes, the Earth hasn't rent itself into two.

Castiel would keep them posted as he discovered that he was no longer able to do things. Each new revelation would result in a short phone call; curt, to the point.

Maine: His telekinesis was gone; Kansas City: his miraculous healing ability; Oklahoma: his ability to hear Heaven.

Sometimes, Dean would steal the phone and sit for stretches at a time with it pressed to his ear, just listening. Sam would never hear him say anything in reply, but he's not so sure Castiel was talking, either.

Never, however, has Castiel ever visited them in such a disheveled state.

A small thread of dread begins to weave its way into Sam's thoughts. But before he can think too hard about it, Dean returns with clean towels.

"Alright, I'll bite. What's up, Doc?" He tosses the procured towels at the angel, who catches them absently, but otherwise doesn't respond.

"Castiel?" Sam prompts quietly.

The angel's posture is rigid, wound tight with tension. His hands finally still in his lap, and Sam notices for the first time that they're shaking.

In the silence, he whispers only two words:

"They're gone."

The youngest Winchester frowns, drawing a blank on what could cause the angel so much distress.

Dean, however, swears violently.

"Gone?" He demands, and Sam is surprised at the level of agitation in his voice. "You're sure?"

The angel refuses to meet either of their gazes, and Dean growls out a frustrated, "Cas! Look at me!"

"Dean-" Sam tries to protest, but his brother raises his hand, cutting him off.

"Cas." His tone is softer now, and the angel's hands clench in his overcoat, knuckles white. "Are you sure?"

Castiel finally lifts his gaze from the floor, and Sam is blindsided by the sheer agony he sees there.

"Yes, Dean. I'm sure."

The hunter swears again, starts forward towards the man on the bed, only to move back again in agitation. Finally, he settles on staring at the angel with an unreadable expression on his face. It's with dawning realization that Sam finally understands.

"Your wings," he exhales sadly, and his brother glares daggers.

"Yeah, good going Sherlock."

Sam ignores his tone, having been on the receptive end of Dean's protectiveness long enough to know what happens when he thinks someone he cares about is threatened.

Instead, he sighs, grabbing one of the extra chairs from the table in the corner and and dragging it across from his friend. "So it's gone?" Sam asks, as gently as he can manage. "Magic mojo, angel radio, all of it?"

Castiel nods, seeming to sink further into the bed. "Yes. I had just enough Grace remaining to find you and Dean, but as you have probably guessed, it wasn't quite enough to get me all the way." He shrugs helplessly, and it's such a human gesture that Sam can't help but reach out and clasp a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"Hey man, it's alright. We'll figure this out, same as always."

Cas smiles half-heartedly, his gaze traveling over to Dean. The oldest Winchester is still staring at him, and something seems to pass between the two. Finally, the hunter sighs, crossing the room to sink down onto the bed next to the former angel. "Yeah, Cas." He echoes, bumping shoulders wearily. "You're stuck with us, like it or not." Cas relaxes imperceptibly, letting the warmth of the hunter bleed through his wet shirt, towels lying forgotton in his lap.

"Thank you," the former angel murmers finally. "Both of you."

And if Cas sags just a little more, the tension leeching out of him bit by bit as he leans into the hunter's side, well, none of them are going to say a word.

* * *

The next few weeks pass in an awkward blur of figuring out exactly what, and what not, Castiel knows how to do.

This proves difficult the first couple of days, as Castiel isn't inclined to do much of anything at all but sit quiety in the corner.

He eats when he's supposed to and has been observing humanity long enough to grasp the concept of basic personal hygiene- much to the brothers' relief- but they get the feeling that the former angel is still trying to get a grip on humanity.

Sleeping is one aspect that the angel hasn't taken kindly to. Often, he stays up as long as possible, only falling unconscious when his body absolutely demands it. When he does sleep, he dreams, and apparently it's a lot different when experiencing them firsthand, instead of simply walking into someone else's.

They aren't always pleasant, either. This doesn't come as a surprise to any of them, and either Sam or Dean is always close by on these nights.

Castiel also learns that hangovers aren't much different when you're human than they are pumped full of Grace. Dean's more than happy to drink along with him, and Sam's there to sort them all out in the morning.

The terrible pounding in his head, however, leads Cas to learn of life's true wonders: hot showers.

The first time he uses one, he comes out twenty minutes later, and it takes an hour for the warm water to return to the cheap motel. The blissed out expression on his face is worth it, though, and Sam can't help but grin. Of course, his amusement may have something to do with catching sight of Dean catching sight of _Castiel_ in nothing but a towel, and then witnessing his ever so suave older brother prompty trip over his bag lying on the floor. (Which Sam may or may not have unobtrusively slid into his path.)

To his surprise, Sam sees Cas's lips quirk, and thinks that maybe the former angel isn't so oblivious, after all.

It also gives the youngest Winchester an idea.

* * *

"Really, Sam?" Dean's gaze is skeptical. "You're serious?"

"_Yes_, Dean. I think it'll be good for him."

Dean crosses his arms over his chest, eyeing his brother dubiously. "Let me get this straight. You, Sam "we're-not-gonna-start-that-crap-up-again" Winchester, are actually gunning for it?"

Sam shrugs. "I think it'll be good for him."

Dean nods slowly, grin forming as he catches on. "Sort've a Winchester initiation thing? Welcome to the club?"

"Exactly."

Dean glances back over his shoulder at Cas, passed out cold on the spare bed.

"Alright," he agrees finally. "Let's do it."

* * *

Sam eyes the contraption Dean has rigged over the door skeptically. "This is not going to end well."

"It was _your_ idea, remember?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "I wanted to prank him, not maim him." It'd been his idea, but he'd never expected for Dean to take to it like he did. His brother had been possessed the past day and a half, trying to figure out the perfect prank to cheer up their friend.

It'd almost be sweet if it wasn't so annoying.

"He'll be fine, _Samantha_." Dean fixes the sack in place, giving the rope one final tug. Nodding at his handiwork, he jumps down from the chair. "Quit worrying."

Heaving a sigh, Sam slides off of the bed. "I'm going to go hunt down that maid again, just in case. Maybe she'll take pity on us."

"Wimp!" Dean calls cheerfully after him.

Sam flips him off.

After that, barring his brother's untimely return, all Dean has to do is lie in wait.

* * *

It doesn't take as long as he expected, nor is it half as funny.

"I may not have been human very long," Castiel comments dryly, now drenched completely in flour courtesy of the open door behind him. "But I am certain that this isn't a typical method of greeting."

"No," Dean grouses, flopping back onto the bed in defeat. "It's not- it's... stupid. Just forget it." Because, really, it's not funny, they have a hundred other things they could be doing, they're going to have to clean this entire mess up, and he just-

He was just tying to do something for Cas, for once. Cheer him up, after all the crap that'd been happening recently, and even that backfired on him.

When the hunter doesn't elaborate, Cas raises an eyebrow. "Dean?"

Dean huffs a breath of frustration. "It's just something that Sam and I have done since we were little, okay? Itching powder in the shorts, seran wrap on the doorway, kid stuff like that, you know?"

Cas, despite what Dean may believe, actually does know.

"Dean, I believe you're forgetting that Gabriel was my older brother. That means I was exposed to similar... antics, for a good deal of time." He frowns slightly. "Even if I didn't particularly condone them at the time."

The hunter blinks. "Huh." Ever articulate.

When the angel doesn't respond other than to stare at him as if waiting for an explanation, Dean squirms slightly. "It just- I dunno, man." He sighs, finally, running a hand down his face. "Sam and I knew you felt pretty crappy about losing your Grace, and you're basically stuck with us anyway, and we thought we'd just sort of make it unofficially official. Sort of a, "welcome to the worst club you'll ever join, might want to take out a life insurance policy", kind of thing. It was stupid."

The hunter throws his arm over his face, effectively blocking out the man in front of him, so he completely misses Cas frown.

"It's not stupid at all."

Dean lets out a grunt of protest, but otherwise doesn't respond.

"_Dean_," the darker haired man urges. "It's not. It's something that was important to you and your brother. something that you value. It's a honor to be included in it."

Castiel has both arms crossed over his chest, all righteous indignation at Dean's seeming short selling of himself. Even without the angel mojo, the hunter has to admit, it's pretty intimidating.

Dean, however, risks one glance up at his friend, and bursts into laughter. If anything Castiel's umbrage magnifies. He opens his mouth to protest, but Dean raises his hand, cutting him off.

"No, I get you man, I do." He gasps out between breaths, sliding off the bed and moving towards the former angel. "And I appreciate it." He grins. "But you're still covered in flour."

Cas blinks, swiping his hand across his cheek. Glancing from Dean to the powdery substance now coating his fingers, he narrows his eyes in thought. "It would appear so." The corner of his mouth twitches up, any remaining aggravation slipping away.

Dean clutches his side, humor hitting him again in full force. It's not even that funny, but just the expression Cas's face-

He breaks off with a yelp, suddenly finding himself covered in the stuff.

"What the hell, man?"

"Once one has been pranked, it is customary to return the favor, correct?"

Dean wipes the flour off the front of his shirt, narrowing his eyes. He glances up at Cas and he's _smirking,_ the sneaky bastard.

Stepping forward, the hunter sheds his jacket, shaking it out and sending as much of the stuff as he can flying towards the other man's general vicinity.

Cas jumps back, grin creeping onto his face.

Dean's smile grows to match it, diving towards the open bag on the floor containing the remaining flour. Cas lunges forward at the same time he does, and they crash together, upending the bag entirely.

Managing to grab handfuls of the stuff, the two men retreat to opposite corners of the room, sizing up the opposition. Cas rears back, attempts to throw a clump of it across the room, and is met with dissapointment when the powdery mess disintegrates in midair.

Seizing his oppurtunity, Dean surges forward with a triumphant cry.

This was, apparently, exacly what Castiel had been waiting for. Ducking neatly out of the way, the former angel waits until the taller man has overbalanced himself, then shoves his remaining handful of flour right into the hunter's face.

Dean splutters in surprise, but manages to shoot an arm out, snagging Cas around the waist before the latter can sneak away.

"Uh, no. I don't think so."

Trapping his friend against his chest, Dean shakes his head like a dog, coating them both in white dust. Cas squirms in his grip, managing to connect a solid elbow to Dean's gut. The hunter lets out an "Oomph!" and loosens his grip, but before Cas can break free completely, Dean's got another handful of the stuff and is smearing it into the other man's hair.

Castiel growls, finally breaking away. Circling around, Dean manages to get between the dark haired man and further ammo, which has somehow relocated to the bed.

Green eyes meet blue, each anticipating the other's next move. Cas, however, has stil not quite gotten his landlegs without his Grace, and when he darts forward his foot catches on the edge of Dean's bag- yes, still on the floor.

So maybe that's not entirely Cas's fault.

Either way, Castiel goes careening forward, crashing into the hunter and propelling them unceremoniously onto the bed.

White flies everywhere as the two tussle for leverage. Castiel grabs clumpfuls of flour, smearing it all down Dean's face. The hunter retaliates by flipping the smaller man onto his stomach, pinning him down with his knees and shoving a handful of the stuff down the back of his shirt.

Cas squawks in protest, arching upwards, and the hunter loses his balance. Hanging precariously in the no-man's-land beween bed and floor, Dean scrambles wildly for purchase, managing to snag the edge of the other man's shirt before he goes over.

They hit the ground with a loud thud and tangled limbs. Dean winds up with a knee to the side and a mouthful of hair, courtesy of the man now sprawled on top of him. He groans, head thudding back against the floor.

"Truce?"

Cas huffs, a cloud of flower puffing out in front of him. Lifting his head, he glances first at Dean, then at the powdery mess surrounding them. "Truce," he deadpans, dropping his head back to it's former position somewhere near the hunter's clavicle. (They learned early on that Cas, unused to the large amounts of energy required to do simple tasks, liked to take impromptu naps on whatever he deemed comfortable.)

"Dean?"

The hunter, apt to fall asleep himself, grunts in response.

"Thank you. For," Cas lifts a hand, gestures vaguely through the air. "For this. It- it really does mean a lot."

Dean turns his head to the side to hide a smile.

"Whatever, man. No Hallmarks."

Always one for the dramatic entrance, Sam chooses this precise moment to return with the towels.

He takes on look around the room, eyes flitting from the floury handprints on the wall, to the streak marks across the carpet, and finally to the pair collapsed on the ground.

The yougest Winchester sighs, dropping the towels on the least dirty bed and moving towards the most likely culprits.

As soon as he's close enough, Dean grins up at him. "Heya, Sammy." Cas manages a rather undignified grunt by way of greeting, seemingly content to remain where he is.

Sam snorts, looking from Cas to Dean, gaze finally moving to the, now mostly empty, sack of flour.

"Well," he muses approvingly. "I guess that's about as close to official as it's going to get."

Lifting up the offending object, Sam hefts it thoughtfully. Then, he shrugs:

"Welcome to the family."

-and dumps the rest of the bag over their heads.

* * *

**Apparently I have a thing for those two winding up on the floor. That sounded less sexual in my head. Really.**

**Thoughts?**


End file.
